


The Sensualities of Winter Solstice

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Apologies, Arguing, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Cloves, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Scents & Smells, Sensuality, Sharing a Bed, Winter, Winter Solstice, cinnamon, lavender - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8749243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: A bitter argument, a hot bath, the scents of lavender and cinnamon rising from warm skin, and apologies that change everything on the longest night of the year.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Чувственность зимнего солнцестояния](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9891164) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little holiday gift about the five senses. Hope you enjoy, and may your December be full of cheer.

The old pipes rattled and groaned as the hot water splashed into the tub. Sherlock winced at the noise filling the tiny bathroom, his hands fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, fingers clumsy with fatigue.

His muscles ached, punished by a chase through the streets, leaps over fences and low walls, a scuffle of fists and knees when he finally snagged the thief by the collar and toppled him to the ground.

The police had soon arrived, the suspect cuffed, the case solved. It should have been satisfying but it wasn't, because John had not been there to witness it.

John missed it all because he had stormed out of the flat three days ago after a furious argument and had not returned.

So instead of celebrating the case together over dim sum, it was walking home alone through the dark streets, the adrenaline wearing off, his raw knuckles stinging, up the stairs, into the empty flat.

Standing in the quiet kitchen under the fluorescent light, a sharp pang had pierced Sherlock's chest. John still hadn't texted or called, remaining stubbornly silent.

The pang returned as Sherlock undressed, the bathroom tiles slicked with moisture, the cold December air that seeped through the ill-fitting windowpanes mixing with the warm steam from the bath.

The shirt grazed off Sherlock's shoulders onto the floor, his trousers collapsed next, pants and socks peeled away.

Now he stood naked, curve of flank and bumps of spine flashing in a corner of the mirror. He glanced up, the tired face staring at him in the glass momentarily unfamiliar.

He slid the mirror to the side to banish his reflection, exposing the contents of the cabinet. His eyes flicked over razor and tubes and bottles, landing on a slender glass vial. He picked it up, read the label. Lavender essential oil.

He almost smiled. It was John's, one of his ridiculous bath products. John had always been one for long soaks, complete with oils and candles.

He turned the vial in his fingers, screwed off the cap, sniffed. It was a pleasant scent, evoking summer sun and droning bees, hot flagstones and a cool, purple-shadowed bedroom.

It was a scent that sometimes clung to John’s dressing gown as he walked by rubbing his damp hair with a towel, yawning, announcing he was going to turn in for the night. Lavender was supposed to help you relax, sleep.

Tonight, Sherlock would welcome a deep rest. He tipped a few drops of oil into the bath, then twisted the taps shut, slow drips from the lip of the faucet punctuating the sudden silence.

He lifted a foot over the side of the tub, eased it into the water, his fingers curling as the heat engulfed his ankle and calf. It felt good, the hot bite on his skin, the sharp sting as he gingerly lowered his body.

He let out a long sigh, stretching out, thighs sinking under the surface, his head resting against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, tried to let thoughts ripple by unnoticed, but the argument with John lingered, persistent, replaying in his mind.

The entire situation had escalated out of proportion, a quarrel about Sherlock's rudeness snowballing into a heated row about his arrogance, thoughtless behavior, and lack of empathy.

He pictured John's tight smile -- the one that didn't reach his eyes and meant he was biting back rage -- and recalled his last words: _“You don't ever feel anything, do you?”_

Sherlock had flinched inwardly but did not reply, and John had turned away, his back rigid.

He pushed the scene away again, refocused on his breath. In… Out… In… Out...

Tender flesh reddened, a fine sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. Heat and lavender twined around him, lulling him into a drowsy state, transporting him back to a long ago summer in his grandmother’s garden.

He'd been innocent once, unsullied before the lure of chemicals and crime took hold, was once able to idle away hours with an adventure book or a magnifying glass, studying plants and insects and sea shells.

Somewhere along the way that curious little boy had calloused over into an arrogant man, contemptuous, brilliant, isolated.

Sherlock opened his eyes, regret flooding through him. He hadn't always been alone. There was John.

John whistling up the stairs, biting through toast, tapping away on his laptop, asking the right questions to stimulate his mind, John glaring, laughing, swearing, smiling. John, who might not come back.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, losing himself in the patterns of crazed paint that would eventually crack and peel if nothing was done to patch it up. Perhaps he should apologize.

His gaze slowly dropped to his feet braced against the porcelain at the end of the tub, the fanned ridges of tendons leading to long, bony toes. Underwater, his scraped knuckles throbbed. He studied the planes of his shins, the fresh bruises on the knobs of his knees, the fine hair on his upper thighs, his cock floating above a thicket of coarse dark hair.

Such a strange appendage, exposed and vulnerable, crude and efficient, ridiculous and practical, sometimes inconveniently obvious, capable of giving and receiving so much pleasure...

His palm wrapped around his soft cock, testing the weight. He tightened his grip, slicking up and down, feeling the shaft grow and harden, imagining a hot mouth, pink tongue, slow wet sucking...

His hand dropped away and he slid deeper into the tub, submerging his body, the water lapping at his earlobes, saturating the hair at his nape.

He sometimes wished he didn't have a body, that he could just exist as formless intellect, no eating or sleeping to bother with, no aches or pains… no desires. At other times, he wished he could embrace those urges, abandon himself to pleasure, giving into lust utterly and heedlessly.

He stayed submerged, the bath growing tepid. He was reluctant to move, dreading the shock of cold air against his damp skin. But he couldn't lie here forever.

With discipline, he slowly lifted his hands, breaking through the calm surface of the water, wrinkled fingers grasping the edge of the tub. He forced himself to rise, water sheeting off his body, goosebumps pricking his skin, a shiver jolting his spine as he reached for a towel.

The towel was soft, freshly laundered by Mrs. Hudson. He swept it down his arms and legs, skimmed it over his neck, breathed in its floral scent as he dried his face. More lavender.

He looped the towel behind his back, absorbing the last chilly rivulets. He hung up the towel to dry, then pulled on his blue dressing gown, the cool, silky fabric kissing across his skin.

Knotting the tie at his waist, he made a decision. He would text John and apologize.

He went to the sitting room to retrieve his phone, pausing first to start the fireplace, welcoming the heat and glow of the flame. He picked his phone up from his desk, tapped in his passcode, and paused again.

What to type?

That he hadn't meant to be so harsh and dismissive? That he wasn't used to thinking about how his actions affected anyone else? That he wished John would come back?

He began typing, starting and erasing and starting again.

_I want to apo_

_I want you to come h_

_I want you_

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard as he read the three words remaining on the screen, struck still by the unintentional confession.

Want. The yearning to touch and be touched, to fold into one another, breath suspended between lips -- sensations he’d experienced long ago, rarely remembered, dormant until John woke something in him, stirred by the soldier’s stance, the doctor’s skill, the writer’s imagination, defying all logic.

He slowly backspaced over each letter until the screen was blank, then typed again, quickly sending the message before he could change his mind.

_I'm sorry._

 

**********************

 

John turned his face up into the spray of water, the sting of each jet needling him into wakefulness. He’d slept terribly the last few nights, Greg’s sofa putting a permanent crick in his neck.

He'd just finished a double shift and was exhausted, heading straight to the shower after returning to Greg’s flat from the clinic. Greg was out, probably working late on a case.

John let the hot water thunder against his back, the pressure unknotting his cramped muscles. His body had been constantly tensed the past three days, angry at Sherlock, embarrassed for having to impose on Greg, tired and irritable after taking on extra work at the clinic. He was going to need all the money he could earn if he wanted to move out and get his own flat.

His shoulders sagged, deflated at the thought of leaving Baker Street. Everything was a mess. He and Sherlock had argued, this time more bitterly than ever. It was his own doing; he'd had enough of being insulted and ordered about like a lackey and had snapped. He couldn't remember what he’d said, exactly. Something about not being a dog to kick around, about Sherlock being an arrogant prick. That he never felt anything.

John regretted the petty insults that he'd hurled in frustration. If he was honest with himself, he could overlook the arrogance (Sherlock was undeniably brilliant), accept the orders (he'd been a soldier, after all), but accusing Sherlock of lacking emotions… that had been a low blow.

He was certain Sherlock felt things; they'd laughed together, supported each other, bickering and joking and working and sitting in companionable silence, exchanging thoughts with a glance or a shrug. They knew each other intimately, and yet they didn't.

Sherlock controlled himself so tightly, mastering all extraneous impulses for the sake of pure intellect. If Sherlock would lower his barriers and let him in, if he would just give himself over to something base and hungry and sensual...

John closed his eyes, streams of water running down his arms and torso, winding down his thighs and calves, pooling over his feet. For a moment, he could indulge in the fantasy that the sensations were long fingers playing over his body, soft caresses. His hand drifted to his cock, curled around the shaft, stroking experimentally a few times.

No. John’s eyes snapped open and he rubbed his skin harshly with the bar of soap, a reprimand for imagining things he knew were impossible. God, how he sometimes wished he could lock away his desires, tamp down the crude urges of his body.

In many ways, it would just be better if he moved out and left Sherlock to his work. They would both adjust. They weren't dependent on each other; they weren't an old married couple, for God’s sake.

The water drummed against John's back and he felt hollow, unconvinced. The warm cinnamon and clove scent of the soap shimmered in the air, bringing to mind crisp winter nights and mugs of mulled cider, Christmas mornings and wool socks on cold wooden floors, a candied kiss in the back row of the cinema, a room with flickering red candles and long shadows.

Melancholy settled into his bones. All those memories were from long ago. Change and loss were inevitable.

He turned off the taps and stood for a moment, his hair dripping, his lashes beaded with water.

He should go back to the flat and tell Sherlock that he was moving out. Maybe he should apologize. He didn't know what he should do.


	2. Chapter 2

John stood in the entryway of 221b, the metal keys cold in his hand. He had walked to the flat, shivering in his jacket, his hair still wet.

He had hoped the exercise would help clear his head, but it hadn’t. Instead, his mind wandered as he walked past elaborate Christmas window displays filled with fairy lights and idyllic winter scenes, lavishly decorated trees and sparkly snowflakes. How nice and cozy everything looked, a sugarplum dream spun for children.

He glanced up the stairs at the flat, a familiar warm glow seeping through the crack of the partially opened door. Sherlock had the fire going, and John could picture it, the flames casting shadows over the red carpet, the comfortable chairs.

He stiffly put a hand on the bannister and climbed the stairs slowly, careful not to place weight where the steps creaked. He tried to formulate the words in his head, preparing his speech for when he saw Sherlock.

He paused on the landing and glanced through the door. He could see only a sliver of the sitting room, including the back of his arm chair. God, he wished he was sitting in it right now, feet stretched out, a drink in his hand, Sherlock reclined on the sofa and pontificating about one arcane subject or another.

John looked down at his shoes, suddenly overwhelmed. How could he ever leave this place, leave Sherlock?

He stood for a long moment, then pulled out his phone. He held it, his fingers still stiff with cold, and pecked out a simple message.

_I’m sorry._

At the same moment he sent it, his phone pinged, a new message sliding into view.

He frowned at the words, perplexed.

_I’m sorry._

It was from Sherlock. But how --

The door swung open and Sherlock stood there, phone in hand. They looked at each other, piecing together the fact that they had simultaneously apologized, their messages crossing in the ether.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth crooked up slightly, and he opened the door wider. John stepped in and Sherlock closed the door behind him.

“You’re freezing,” Sherlock murmured, not quite meeting John’s eyes as he took his coat and hung it up. “Come sit by the fire.”

John followed, a bit wary. Sherlock never apologized. And he was acting so subdued. He hesitated by the fireplace, and Sherlock remained standing as well, seeming to wait for John’s cue.

John tilted his head at him, taking in the blue silk dressing gown, the bare legs and feet, the triangle of exposed chest sprinkled with a smattering of freckles.

John fumbled for something to say. “You've just had a bath.”

“And you've just showered. Worked a double shift.”

John nodded curtly, looking up when the scent of lavender reached his nose. “You used my bath oil.” His tone was more accusatory than he intended.

Sherlock glanced away. “I suppose I did. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. It's… nice.”

Sherlock ran a finger along the mantle, drawing a line in the dust. “Cinnamon.”

John raised a questioning eyebrow.

“You smell like cinnamon. And cloves.”

“Oh, the soap... It was something extra Greg had, one of those hotel soaps.” John pocketed his phone, realizing that he'd been gripping it tightly.

They fell silent, and John held his hands out to the fire to warm them, unsure what to do next, highly conscious of the floral and spice fragrance mixing around them.

He glanced at Sherlock again, noticing the abrasions on his knuckles. “What happened there?”

Sherlock flexed the fingers of his injured hand. “I caught a bad guy,” he said lightly.

“I suppose you did it on your own, not waiting for the police.”

“Where's the fun in that?” Sherlock smiled ruefully. “Besides, you weren't there to help.”

“Right,” John’s tone was clipped, his face darkening. “Because a couple of days ago, you called me a useless twat.”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, ‘incompetent idiot’ is so much better.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

John threw up his hands and walked away from the fireplace. “You know, just once it'd be nice to hear something from you that wasn't an insult.”

John stood behind his chair, half considering leaving. He didn't want to argue pointlessly with Sherlock again. He closed his eyes, feeling drained.

It was the silence that caused him to turn around. No retort, no punchline from Sherlock. Instead, he had moved to his desk, his hands braced on the top, his head hanging down.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock eventually said, his voice low. He looked up at John. “Forgive me.”

John held his gaze, cautious.

Sherlock straightened his back, ran a hand distractedly through his hair. “You're right. I've been a thoughtless dick.” He turned away from John, training his eyes on the fireplace. “I haven't thanked you often enough. I haven't told you…” he faded out, struggling to finish the sentence.

John waited, watching Sherlock's shoulders tense and fall.

“I haven't expressed,” Sherlock’s voice was strained, “what you mean to me."

John held his breath, not daring to anticipate what Sherlock might say next.

“John… I'm a fool. I'm reckless, inconsiderate, an insufferable arse. I've taken you for granted.” Sherlock paused, took a breath. “But the truth is… you are my anchor. And I don't want to lose you because of my stupidity.”

John blinked, flooded with a mix of emotions that made it impossible to speak. He looked down, concentrating on the plaid pattern of the blanket that covered the back of his chair. He smoothed his hand over the nubby wool. _His anchor._

“If you came here to tell me you want to move out, I understand. I don't blame you.” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John. “I just wanted to apologize properly before you go.”

Sherlock's expression was resigned, miserable, and it pulled at John's heart with an unexpected intensity. What were they doing to each other -- fighting, apologizing, edging closer, pulling back, giving up?

The words came out of his mouth before he could plan them. “I don't want to go.” His eyes met Sherlock's. “I want to stay.”

Surprise shimmered across Sherlock’s face, and John stepped closer, drawn to him. “You are insufferable at times, but I wouldn't have it any other way.”

His eyes fell to Sherlock's neck, the hollow of his throat, the curve of collarbone. Here was his addiction, the danger, the beauty, the spark that lit his otherwise mundane life. “I’m not leaving you.”

They stood an arm’s length apart, the air tense between them, aware of their proximity, each pulse and breath heightened.

John gazed at Sherlock, knowing Sherlock was analyzing him, observing how John's eyes slid to his mouth, to his neck, to where the robe sat slightly askew on his left shoulder, the silk threatening to skim off his skin. He could reach out so easily, slip it off.

“The answer is yes,” Sherlock said, barely audible.

John lifted his gaze back to Sherlock's, feeling dazed.

“I want you to touch me.”

Although the words contained an invitation, full permission, perhaps even a soft command or a quiet plea, John’s fingers trembled as he placed them delicately on the side of Sherlock's throat. 

The touch was electric, humming with the vitality of Sherlock's body. John swore he could feel the blood coursing under the skin, the flight of lightning fast cells and synapses. He opened his palm, sliding it down the sweep of Sherlock's neck, his thumb tracing a partial arc of collar bone, across sinews, his fingertips disappearing beneath the edge of blue silk.

John heard the catch in Sherlock's breath, and he slowed, imagining that his fingers sensed something new under the firm muscles and bones. As a doctor, he knew the power of touch, what it revealed -- the secrets hidden in tissues and bodily rhythms that could not be seen -- but this was fanciful, impossible.

His fingers relayed to him a profound sadness, a loneliness that was like a deep ache. He paused, Sherlock's shallow breath and rapid pulse offering a flutter of restrained hope, the beating wings of desire and fear.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered, suddenly understanding Sherlock's hard exterior, the armor he wore to conceal his vulnerabilities. He fervently pressed his lips to Sherlock's neck, pushing the dressing gown away, cupping the round shoulder, wanting to protect him and consume him, filing in every empty space.

 


	3. Chapter 3

As John's mouth moved to the tender skin under his jaw, Sherlock closed his eyes, desperately recalibrating to accommodate the last few unexpected seconds. He had fantasized about such a moment, always chastising himself for a fool. But now it was happening, John's touch and kiss were real; John wasn't leaving, he wouldn't be alone.

His hands moved uncertainly to John's waist, steadying himself, his fingers curling tighter when John's lips brushed the corner of his mouth.

He couldn't think, could barely manage to recall where he was, his mind so focused on the sensations rippling through him. Caresses and cool air on his bare shoulder, warm kisses trailing up his neck, the scent of cinnamon rising from John's body.

And now, the heat of John's lips so close to his own, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, found his bearings when his gaze met John's. Time moved thickly like honey dripping from a spoon, golden firelight playing across John's features, his dark blue eyes deepened with flecks of silver.

John placed his fingertips on the nape of Sherlock's neck, guiding him down to his mouth with the lightest pressure. Sherlock followed willingly, thoughts suspended as their lips met softly, testing.

Sherlock’s hands skimmed past John's shoulders, his fingers sliding into John's damp hair, deepening the kiss. He wanted this, so, so badly. John groaned, clutching Sherlock harder.

It was too much to catalogue, breath mingling, noses touching, eager lips and tips of tongues, a simmering of floral and spice, smooth cheek and rasp of stubbled jaw, hands stroking and sensing.

A warmth pooled in Sherlock's belly, desire igniting, racing through his veins. He wanted more. More skin, more mouth, the sting of teeth biting his shoulder, John's weight crushing the breath from his lungs, John's face contorting with pleasure as he writhed beneath him. He’d been too cautious for too long, too Spartan. Now he craved sensuality in every possible combination.

Grit in the lens be damned. To hell with ‘Don't get involved.’ He tugged impatiently at the tails of John's shirt, freeing them, snaking his palms up the ladder of ribs.

John exhaled audibly, his fingers fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, trying to undo them while maintaining contact with Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock kissed John hungrily, waltzing them toward the case wall, his hands sliding down to John's belt buckle, the metal clasp  releasing with a soft jangle.

When their shins bumped against the sofa, John worked off his shoes and socks, almost stumbling. Sherlock hurriedly unknotted the tie of his dressing gown as John shrugged off his shirt.

They stood for a moment, chests rapidly rising and falling. Sherlock's robe had fallen open across his torso, barely hanging onto his left shoulder, barely concealing anything below his navel. John was naked to his waist, barefoot, jeans crumpled down low on his hips.

Their eyes roved appreciatively over each other's bodies, taking their time. John wet his lips and Sherlock smiled inwardly, a shiver of anticipation running up his spine. He'd often imagined John naked, undressing him mentally, discarding clothing piece by piece, always lingering over the thought of what might lie beneath his rather ordinary underwear.

He pictured this: John’s cock was uncut, thick, not overly long. Hefty. That was the word that came to mind. A pleasing handful. He hoped to soon find out.

John gasped when Sherlock pushed him down onto the sofa. He grunted when Sherlock straddled his lap with one swift move, the dressing gown billowing behind him like a cape, the silk on his shoulder still askew. He sighed when Sherlock leaned down to kiss him, tongue slipping between their lips.

If John was surprised at the swift change in Sherlock’s demeanor, he voiced no sign of objection. He returned the kiss eagerly, his hands sliding down Sherlock's hips to cup his arse, fingers dimpling into the lush flesh.

Pressed this closely together, the deeper spice notes of the soap rose enticingly from John's skin. Sherlock dipped his nose to John's neck, breathing in the heady scent.

 _“Syzygium aromaticum,_ ” Sherlock murmured.

“Hmm?” John asked distractedly, caressing the curves of Sherlock's backside and melting deeper into the sofa cushions.

“Cloves… Botanical name.” Sherlock’s mouth hovered near John's ear. “You smell so good,” he nipped lightly on John's earlobe, “I could eat you.”

When John answered, his voice was husky. “I wouldn't mind.”

Sherlock ran his palms down John's chest, his hands lingering, feeling the heartbeat. Always steady, reassuring, a constant he relied on. He then slid them to the warmth of John's stomach, lower to his hips.

Strangely, he was not nervous, having imagined this a thousand times. He wanted to please John, wanted to explore him, memorize each sound, each shudder and flex, taste him, swallow him whole.

Disentangling himself from John's lap, Sherlock sank to his knees between John's legs, bruises forgotten, and hooked his fingers over John's waistband. Not breaking their gaze, Sherlock tugged down as John lifted his hips, working the jeans and pants off and tossing them aside.

John reached for Sherlock, sweeping the dressing gown from his shoulders, the blue silk pooling on the red wool rug. Both exposed, there was a silence as John gently touched Sherlock's cheek.

The gesture spoke volumes --  encouragement, affection, forgiveness --  and Sherlock smiled slightly, hoping John could read the gratitude and desire swirling in his veins.

Sherlock settled a hand on John's thigh, opening more space, circled John's cock with his fingers, and lowered his head, relishing the fullness in his mouth, the tremble in the sigh that escaped from John's lips.

 

_**********************_

 

In the dark bedroom, John lay on his back, one arm crooked behind his head, the other wrapped around Sherlock where he nestled into his side.

He toyed absently with a lock of Sherlock's hair, his eyes on the window. It was late, after midnight.

Impressions washed over him -- Sherlock on his knees, the crown of curls gilded by firelight, slick fingers and tongue and mounting pleasure, the creak of leather cushions, his own stifled cry of release.

Then his hands on Sherlock's body, touching every inch, nuzzling, tasting, discovering edges and hollows, sliding his lips over his swollen cock, soft moans, thigh muscles quivering, the salt and heat of Sherlock in his mouth.

Afterwards, long kisses on the plaid blanket by the fire, a lazy meal of apples and gingery biscuits and milky tea.

Now they lay in Sherlock's bed, sated, tired but not sleeping. John let the moment surround him, soaking in the warm, tangled sheets, the scents of spice and sweet and sex, the hiss of sleet against the window panes. There was nowhere he'd rather be.

Sherlock stirred, resettled, resting his hand on John's chest, one fingertip tracing the edge of the scar on John's shoulder.

There was an unspoken agreement, it seemed, to not talk about the sudden shift in their relationship. Not yet. It could wait. Hours, days, maybe weeks. Or maybe it would just be this way, seamless.

He lifted Sherlock's injured hand, kissing each knuckle lightly, catching a wisp of lavender fading from his skin. Wanting to hear Sherlock's voice, low and sleepy, he asked an unimportant question. “What’s the Latin name for lavender?”

“ _Lavandula_.”

“And cinnamon?”

“ _Cinnamomum_.”

“You remember all that,” John teased gently, “but I bet you didn't know that today was the winter solstice.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, clearly trying to recall the significance of the solstice.

“The shortest day of the year,” John supplied.

Sherlock gazed up at him. “Then it's the longest night.

John smiled. “That's true.”

“And we’re both here.”

“Quite so.”

“Fortuitous.”

“Very.” John felt warmed at the ease of their familiar banter, dropping a kiss onto Sherlock's forehead. It was fitting, being together on this night, the solstice a turning point, emerging from the darkest moments and returning to the light.

Sherlock rose onto one elbow, leaning up to cover John's mouth with his own. John drew him against his chest, knowing he would never have enough of these moments.

“I’m not working tomorrow,” John hinted softly, “and should you fancy a bath together…” he drew small circles over Sherlock's spine with his fingers, “I've got rose oil...sandalwood…bergamot…”

“Bergamot,” Sherlock murmured, rolling onto his back and pulling John on top of him, fitting their bodies together, his hips moving sinuously.

“Tomorrow,” John breathed the word as a promise, his lips against the hollow of Sherlock's throat.

The sheet slipped from John's lower back, sleet pattering against the glass, the long hours of velvet night pooling like a secret gift before them.

 


End file.
